


Making Merry

by windchijmes



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Mild Fingering, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windchijmes/pseuds/windchijmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dwarves have gathered for the quest, and are all making merry in a tavern. But Thorin is dark and brooding and goes off alone. Dwalin follows him, corners him, and despite Thorin's barbed temperament, services his King with his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Merry

The Dwarves have gathered in force – and when that means just thirteen, the smile that Thorin is supposed to muster on his face dies somewhere in his chest. They may not even make half the journey or lay eyes on Erebor before they perish at the clutches of Orcs and Wargs, and other vile creatures.

He watches them gorging on the abundant feast at the table, swigging tankard after tankard of frothing ale, and all he thinks about is _how many of them_ will remain at the end of all things. His _sister-sons_ are amongst them.

So, he leaves them to step outside. The air is a little less suffocating under the night sky, and his mind is less tarnished by blood and ruined flesh. He is careful to keep to the dank, ill-used alley beside the tavern, leaning his back wearily against bricked wall. He decides he will return when the merrymaking is done, so that he does not have to answer to the expressions of concern and doubt when he steps back into the tavern. He does not want to engage with anyone either; his own mind is doing an admirable job of showing him possible death at every corner.

Naturally, just as soon as he makes that mental note, someone arrives to unravel it.

“The lads do not mean any harm,” the intruder speaks as he emerges from the darkness.

“I know that,” Thorin replies, sounding far more terse than he means to.

But Dwalin is grinning beneath his beard as he takes his place beside Thorin. On either side of them are huge hay carts. The space is a tight fit for two fully-grown, combat-hardened Dwarves. The warrior’s arm is pressed against his own.

“They are foolish and noisy and drink too much for their own good,” Dwalin continues blithely. “But they’re good Dwarves.”

“That sounds like yourself,” Thorin snorts. He thinks they shouldn’t be here. The space really is too small – _and Dwalin is so warm_. Thorin frowns at the direction of his own thoughts. That was unexpected.

“The second part?” Dwalin chuckles under his breath. Before Thorin can retaliate, however, he says suddenly, “So why are you hiding yourself between hay carts?”

Thorin grimaces. As much as he appreciates the battle prowess and steadfast loyalty of his warrior, that doesn’t necessarily extend to his bluntness of speech. “I’m not hiding – I’m _thinking_. Why are _you_ here?”

“Taking a piss.”

For a brief moment, Thorin considers using his rank to order Dwalin back to the tavern so that he can be truly left alone.

“You haven’t answered me.”

Thorin is scowling now. He’s never really appreciated a piss-drunk Dwalin. But a piss-drunk while being annoyingly lucid Dwalin is twice as bad. “I said I was – ”

“I heard you. But you haven’t really heard me, is what I think. You’re here hiding from the Company – ” he leans away from the wall suddenly, startling quick despite his great bulk. And in the next moment, he is _right before_ Thorin with his palms pressed to the brick on either side of Thorin’s shoulders. He is barely an inch taller than Thorin himself, but he feels enormous as he leans into Thorin until they are close enough to share breath. “Because you feel the burden of your duty to your people, and you will sooner die than risk their lives. But the quest takes that choice away from you.”

Thorin just stares like a dimwit. He’s starting to think Dwalin is perhaps, possessed by the spirit of Gandalf.

“I have my moments,” Dwalin grins now, unrepentant and warm and altogether too smug for his own good.

Thorin raises an eyebrow. “I too have my moments when I think I should take a hammer to your skull.”

When Dwalin laughs, his breath is hot and heady with ale across Thorin’s face, and Thorin thinks it may be possible to get drunk like this, breathing in Dwalin. A small flare of anxiety sparks in the pit of Thorin’s belly now – why isn’t Dwalin leaving? _What is he doing standing so close to Thorin?_

“Let me relieve your burden, Thorin.”

Thorin turns him down flatly. “It is my duty as King and only I – ”

“I mean,” Dwalin cuts him off, and the both of them can hear how his voice has gone low and rough around its edges. “I mean I can relieve _you_.”

Then Dwalin’s gaze slides down Thorin’s body like a hot touch, stopping at Thorin’s crotch, before it rises again to stare unflinchingly into Thorin’s widened eyes.

In that one instant, images from the – _their_ – past surge to the forefront of Thorin’s mind. Comradely embraces as Dwarflings. And years later, when they were striplings – fleeting, hesitant touches that far overstepped the line of brotherhood. There was a tryst or two then, hurried couplings that ignited in the worst of places, ending with fumbling breeches and a regretful longing for more. There were no more for years after. Smaug had happened. Then Azanulbizar. Azog. Thror. Thrain. One ceaseless chain of agony that manifested as a deep, all-consuming need for vengeance in Thorin’s mind. Eventually, what little well in his heart Thorin might have reserved for other things – other _people_ – dried up.

“We cannot,” Thorin says in a voice so quiet he can barely hear it himself.

“ _You_ cannot,” Dwalin corrects, and there is such gentleness in his voice that Thorin feels his chest constrict. “But I’m a lowly soldier,” he laughs again, and there is a sliver of sorrow in it, and much more passion than Thorin would allow himself to hear. He lowers his powerful form, sinking slowly to his knees so he looks up at Thorin from a darkly enticing gaze. “And I can do whatever I want.”

“Miscreant,” Thorin glares down at him, but that is all he can do, and he does not move to stop when one hand rises to palm the front of his breeches. A hiss leaves Thorin’s throat, and already, he feels his manhood stirring in response.

“The King’s Miscreant,” Dwalin chortles, sounding more like a growl. “I can live with that.” His touch tightens into a firm grasp of that growing bulge before his eyes. “So eager.”

Thorin doesn’t think he’s capable of it anymore, but he feels warmth creeping over his face. “What is so surprising about that? It is not as if I can lay with – and no one would possibly touch me – like you – ” It is possible he is sputtering nonsense and so Thorin wisely decides to silence himself and concentrate instead on that cunning hand fondling him through the fabric. Heat unspools swiftly in his loins.

“And I would have taken their hands off,” Dwalin promises, managing to sound cheerful and menacing at the same time. His hand does not stop working however, stroking until Thorin’s erection tents outwards in blatant need, and the King is denting the wall with his fingernails.

“Dwalin…” the name leaves Thorin’s lips in a hushed breath. His flesh hasn’t even been touched yet and he’s already coming undone like a youngling. If he isn’t so aroused just from Dwalin’s hand, he’ll have enough decency to be ashamed of his complete lack of control.

“I want to taste you,” Dwalin says with no abashment of any sort. He has the same expression on his face as when he is assigned to a task – pure, focused determination. Now that it is directed at Thorin’s arousal, the effect is startling. Thorin feels himself harden _even more_.

“We’re – ” Thorin begins and fidgets now in earnest. “We’re out here! ”

The smirk on Dwalin’s face is infuriating, and incredibly arousing, if nothing else. “You just have to keep very quiet. I won’t _need_ long.”

He should clock the warrior upside the head as he deserves, but Thorin turns the urge into an insistent tug on Dwalin’s beard. “ _Now_.”

It makes Dwalin laugh, but he wastes no time then, tugging at Thorin’s breeches with ungentle fingers. He takes his mouth to some of the knots, grinning slyly up at Thorin as he bites and works them loose with tongue and teeth.

Years of abstinence from Dwalin, and Thorin has forgotten how much the warrior relishes teasing him. He remembers it _now_ , all too clearly, breath coming in fits and starts every time Dwalin’s chin or fingers graze knowingly over the clothed mound between his thighs.

“Get to it!” Thorin hisses down at his errant soldier.

So Dwalin obeys and rips the last knot cleanly off. And before Thorin can snap something about being careful with the King’s attire, he pulls down the linen undergarment and Thorin’s freed cock springs up from its confinement. Dwalin takes it in one large, callused palm, made even coarser by the leather straps of his knuckledusters. Above him, Thorin groans long, and so needy. Trapping that column of flesh against Thorin’s stomach, Dwalin’s hand begins a sweet rhythm that has Thorin’s hips grinding under his grip. And right before Dwalin’s greedy eyes, Thorin’s cock stirs and pulses, the thick head darkening with arousal, droplets of fluid gathering at the slit.

Thorin digs his fingers even more brutally into the wall. He is fully hard now – he feels he’s _more than hard_ as Dwalin strokes and pets his erection, kneading at the head to coax yet more wetness from the slit. Dwalin’s other hand now rises to join the torture, cradling his testes and rolling them in his palm to make him feel the ridges of his leather straps.  And by Mahal, it is totally unbidden when Thorin _moans_ at the slow, tormenting pleasure.

Like the scoundrel he is, Dwalin hears it, and stops all that he is doing with his hands, pulling away to sit on his haunches. He stares up at Thorin with an annoying, wolfish and cocky grin on his lips. “You’re breathtaking like that.”

_Breathtaking._ Thorin takes a moment to let that sink in and not explode on the spot – still hidden between the bloody hay carts. Dwalin is supposed to service him with his mouth, which he hasn’t accomplished as of this moment. Thorin’s breeches are hanging around his knees, propped up by his boots, his rock-hard erection hanging out of his pants for all and sundry to peruse. He is fucking aroused and hard and if he hears the word _breathtaking_ ever again, he will _kill_ something.

“Dwalin,” he says, voice unsteady but the tone crystal-clear in its intent. “If you don’t finish this quickly, I will inflict unimaginable pain on you. I swear – I – ” And naturally, the rest of his threat gets drowned by his own gasp as Dwalin leans forward and _nuzzles_ into his testes.

Then that gasp becomes moans – one after another in succession – when Dwalin’s beard scratches and tickles at the sensitive skin. “ _Temper_ , my King,’ Dwalin says between lewd kisses over his sack, slowly moving up the shaft of his straining cock, mouthing every vein he can find. He pauses right before the flushed tip, using just his tongue to trace around it. “Shall I put this in my mouth and suck you dry? Or do you want me to lick you clean? Would you come in my mouth? My hand?”

Thorin stares down, panting and near-mindless from the filth Dwalin is uttering with that complete seriousness of his expression. “In your mouth,” Thorin hears himself grunt. “Suck me.”

The glint in Dwalin’s gaze is equal measures unholy and hungry; he wants this as much as Thorin does. Thorin _watches_ , imprisoned by the sight of Dwalin’s mouth opening and engulfing the head of his arousal. Pleasure surges through Thorin’s nerves, jolting his whole body as that torturous, wet heat sucks in his cock inch by inch. Dwalin’s head pulls back and pushes forward, letting the insides of his cheeks and throat scrape and drag over the throbbing flesh in his mouth.

Thorin’s head falls forward with a guttural cry, lost to the maddening, suckling pleasure around his cock. He cannot take any more of it, but he does, he needs it so badly – and he is made to as Dwalin’s hands reach around him to grasp the swells of his buttocks. The warrior’s hands are urgent, squeezing rough handfuls to haul Thorin away from the wall – to wedge his erection even deeper in Dwalin’s sinful mouth.

All thought and rationale flee Thorin’s mind, chased away by the sight of Dwalin’s lips reddened and wet and flexing obscenely around his cock. Moans spill freely from Thorin’s throat, stifled only when Thorin bites into the leather of his own gloves, as he lets Dwalin move him like a wrecked toy – hands pulling and shoving his buttocks in mercilessly slow thrusts for his cock to fuck in and out of Dwalin’s mouth.

He needs the pace to be faster – _much faster than this_ – as the pressure builds in his loins, and he dangles precariously on the edge of release.

“Dwalin!” he grates out finally, hands finding that bared, tattooed head between his thighs. “Finish me – now. _Quickly_.”

Dwalin understands his desperate need – that bastard – because he goes even _slower_. One arm becomes shackles instead to hold Thorin’s hips against the wall. The other hand digs ruthlessly into the cleft between Thorin’s buttocks, even as Thorin writhes instinctively away from the intrusive touch, until they find the puckered muscle hidden so deep inside. Dwalin’s mouth pulls off a little now, but the suckling heat grows more intense around Thorin, as if keeping in time with his fingers as they circle Thorin’s tight, twitching hole.

Thorin snarls desperate noises into his gloves, teeth denting the material so hard his skin will surely bruise. He is trapped helplessly in the throes of this wanton, filthy pleasure, legs dangerously near buckling – Dwalin working at his cock so thoroughly and hungrily, and those large, groping fingers rubbing lewdly at his entrance. Through his haze and impending release, Thorin’s eyes flutter open to glance down and meet Dwalin’s dark, ravenous gaze. That is enough to snap the impossibly taut coil of heat in Thorin’s loins.

His head arches against the wall, mouth opening in a soundless cry, and his erection jumps and pulsates as it spills strings of stickiness into Dwalin’s waiting throat. The warrior swallows his seed, throat constricting to squeeze every drop from his spurting cock.

He won’t remember how long, but he thinks it is a _very_ long, drawn-out moment before his mind is coherent enough to work out _his own name_ after that mind-shattering climax. Right after that, he also works out that he’s still leaning half-naked against the wall, between two hay carts. And Dwalin is still kneeling before him, now with a sort of _arrogant_ subservience, if there is such a thing at all.

“Let me dress you, my lord,” Dwalin tells him. With care and diligence that one would not expect from the soldier, Dwalin dresses Thorin as efficiently as he had unclothed him. But not before pressing a great many wet kisses over his thighs, abdomen, _and sated, softened cock_ , until a squirming, mortified Thorin snaps at him to finish his bloody task.

When all is done, Thorin is adjusting his gloves with far more force than necessary, cheeks still stained red from his earlier exertions, and Dwalin is wiping at his mouth and beard. He chortles when Thorin mutters something about not mentioning this to the rest of the Company, and is moving to leave and return alone to the tavern when he is stopped by Thorin’s hand on his arm.

“Yes, my lord?” he cocks his head, genuinely quizzical.

“You’re not satisfied,” Thorin says, gaze resting on Dwalin’s crotch, where there is an obvious and very large bulge beneath his breeches.

Dwalin doesn’t grin now; he just shrugs. Almost cavalier, but Thorin knows it is not. “This is for you. I don’t expect – ”

“I know,” Thorin cuts him off. He takes one quick look around him to ascertain their complete privacy, before he drags Dwalin’s head down. The kiss is bruising and hard, almost painful, all the years of secrecy and longing overflowing into the clash of lips and tongues.

Then Thorin breaks it, rearing back before he changes his mind and demands more from Dwalin. Now the warrior’s face is as flushed as his own. Turning on his heels, Thorin stalks back towards the tavern, pausing only to order his soldier to _stop gawking like a fool and catch up_ , so they can return to the tavern.

Together.

And inform the other Dwarves they’ve been doing nothing but making merry. With or without the hay carts.

 

_finis_

* * *


End file.
